


okhotit'sya

by missmacphisto



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Gen, Red Room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-10 15:00:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5590627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmacphisto/pseuds/missmacphisto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are two kinds of people, Natalia, says the Red Room. There are two kinds of people and there is only room for one here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	okhotit'sya

There are two kinds of people, _Natalia_ , says the Red Room. There are two kinds of people and there is only room for one here. The Red Room is a singular place, and there is only one sort of person, and if you are here, then what does that make you?

Natalia says, "A hunter."

She has been holding the weight for twenty minutes. She can feel the burning and the strain but she has not been told to set it down, and so it will continue. Perhaps for another twenty minutes, perhaps for an hour--perhaps for the rest of her life, though God knows it will be short if she fails.

Nobody has told her to set it down and so Natalia Romanova holds the weight aloft because she is a _hunter_ , she does not _fail_ , she is of a hardier breed.

This is what they are looking for. Someone who hates failure more than anything else, someone who does not _bend_ when they are not told, someone who would rather _die_ than lose and they have found all of that and more inside Natalia Alianova, they have uncovered a diamond in the rough and she will be _sharpened_ and then she will be _used_ and then she will become the most brilliant centerpiece the world has ever seen.

Two hours stretches into five hours stretches into twelve when she finally collapses.

 _You have done well, Natalia Alianova,_ they say, and for a moment she basks in the praise--she has done herself proud, she will serve them well, the Union has herself a fine daughter.

 _But you can do better._ They say, and Natalia nods and gets to her feet and picks up the weight again.

 

***

 

If there is glory to be had, it will not be hers.

They do not know her name unless they are meant to; it is meant as a curse, a warning passed among party members. _Shut up unless you want the Black Widow to hear_ , as if she is waiting around every corner for enemies of the state to make themselves known, as if she is a Great Purge unto herself.

 _We each must do our duty_ , they say, and she nods in understanding. Everyone has a job, a quota to fill, and this is hers. This is her contribution to Union, and while there will never be posters on the wall glorifying her example, they will never shout her name in Red Square, that is not what she _wants_.

She is a good Soviet girl; she does not _want_ anything.

 

***

 

He has a purpose, but no name; the perfect Soviet. The man who wants nothing, wastes nothing, never fails. There is no _him_ , only the thing carved out and left behind.

She is fascinated and repulsed at the same time--who is this hollowed out homunculus, _what_ is he? How does he breathe, how does he move, when all she can see when she meets his (blue) eyes is a striking lack of life?

He is the Soldier (the American) and he is here to train her.

He breaks her leg their first time in the ring, bones grinding against each other in a singularly agonizing chorus. She is back the next week, and she does not make mistakes more than once. She observes the mechanical way in which he carries from one motion to the next, no effort wasted in something that could be termed _grace_ if it wasn't so singularly efficient.

She cannot beat the Soldier, in the end, but she can survive against him, and there is nothing to be ashamed of in that. Nobody else has ever managed.

But then, nobody has ever known how to survive as well as she can.

 

***

 

Heat has nothing to do with survival but everything to do with _living_.

He kisses her like something burning, and she _wants_ for the first time in her life, she wants something all of her very own.

 

***

 

 _The mission, Natalia_ , they say.

 _The objective, Natalia_ , they say.

 _There is no failure, Natalia_ , is the mandate handed down from on high, this is the singular purpose of the Red Room, the creation of that which does not _stop_ , that which does not _shudder_ , that which will not _cease_.

It is Natalia who falters, but it is the Black Widow who does not.

It was supposed to be easy, as most things are meant to be for her--there was not supposed to be a girl. This was a war zone, as all places were now, and it was meant to be black and white. Kovalev was a traitor, selling secrets to the West, and so he would die, as he must have known he would.

He must have _known_ , but still, there is his daughter. He dies, gun to his temple, cradled by his own fingers, and she has not yet laid him to the ground, not yet carefully arranged his limbs askance, not yet placed the note written in his own hand, on his own stationary upon his own desk when the door moves, just enough and Natalia looks up.

A girl. Young, eyes wide. A girl who has seen her whole face, the whole scene and for a long moment, Natalia feels something deep and long buried begin to boil below the surface.

"Hello." She says, once in Russian and again in Ukrainian--comfortable, conversational, like she is not holding a dead man in her arms.

The girl stares at her still. She is holding a teddy bear, her feet are bare--her hair is braided with care, tied off with ribbons that look expensive. Natalia lowers the dead man to the floor and steps away, careful to avoid the puddle of blood and brains, the scattered pieces of cream bone.

 _"Papa?"_ The voice is incredibly small, seems to belong to an entirely different species. Natalia does not know what to do with little girls; she cannot recall being one.

"What's your name?" She says, crouching down to fill up the girl's whole field of vision, to meet her eyes. It is like watching a rabbit who has not yet realized this is a trap; it is like being a wolf.

 _"Papa?"_ She repeats, insistently, moving for the first time in an effort to get around Natalia and she catches her by the wrist, pulls her in, feels the rabbit-flutter heartbeat against her fingertips and the feeling threatens to boil over.

"What's your name?" She repeats, and then smiles that long practiced smile, shows those fangs, doesn't know how to make a display of submission to make this girl trust her, and this girl wouldn't know what to do with it if she did. This is not her usual enemy. This is not her enemy.

The girl says, _"Galina."_

The Black Widow repeats, "Galina."

It was the right thing to do, in the end. It had to be the right thing to do. There are two kinds of people.

 

***

 

He says, "We can help you."

She mistakes his meaning at first, mistakes help--this is certainly some sort of cry for help, she admits wryly to herself. Only to herself.

You can't lie to yourself; she can't lie to herself anymore.

He says help and she lets the gun slip from her fingers, her arms spread a little and she meets his eye from across the rooftop.

He lowers the bow instead. Disbelief writes itself plainly over her face, if only so he knows that she's disappointed, as though this too was another great lie--they'll kill you Natalia.

She has never wanted to die; the instinct to survive has always been too strong for that, been the marrow of her bones and the steel of her spine for longer than one would think just by looking at her. No, Natalia Alianova does not want to die. Natalia Alianova doesn't know how.

She doesn't know what she wants. This is not the first time, but it has lasted the longest; she doesn't know what she wants, but she knows what she doesn't want anymore--she doesn't want to be a tool. She doesn't want to be the hanging sword, the curse, doesn't want to hear her name said in the same tone as the Great Purge anymore.

It is not that she doesn't recognize herself in the mirror; it's that she does, it's the knowing of exactly what she is.

What are you, Natalia? A hunter. What are they, Natalia? The hunted.

There are two types of people; and here, look, now comes a third. An embarrassment of riches in the West, that's what she was always told.

It has nothing to do with surviving; it has everything to do with learning how to live.

**Author's Note:**

> basically if i can just write about natasha forever then that is my Ideal, thank u
> 
> come chat w/ me on my [tumblr](http://achtungkatie.tumblr.com/) if u like!


End file.
